Periodically on social media, I have encountered memes praising Daryl Davis, the black musician who has made something of a career out of befriending and converting KKK members. Certainly, Davis is an incredible human being, but I often wonder why no one says much about the ex-Klansmen he counts as friends. Brave as Davis undoubtedly is, does it not strike anyone else that the people who have made the most incredible journey are those who have confronted their own beliefs as members of one of the most notoriously violent racist paramilitaries?
For all the talk about “de-radicalisation” and “confronting extremism”, no one seems much interested in listening to the extremists themselves, especially if they’re white. Even when they renounce extremism.
Peter Cytanovic knows it all, from the inside-out. His face is one of the most recognisable in the annals of recent “hate”: the young man carrying a tiki torch at a notorious “alt-right” rally, his face distorted by screaming hatred.
“I was the face of white terror,” he says.
To nearly everyone he meets, he still is – even though he has renounced his racist beliefs.
He was nearing the end of a masters in political theory at the London School of Economics, volunteering with a counter-extremism organisation, and optimistic about how he could use his experiences to help others understand – and avoid – the draw of the extreme right.
But his story raises difficult questions about how far a person must go to make amends, and whether efforts to silence people like him – however well-intentioned those efforts might be – help or hinder the battle to combat polarisation and extremism.
The tv comedy South Park explored what it is to be forever stigmatised by a single moment of stupidity. Randy Marsh becomes branded “The Nigger Guy”, and no amount of making amends changes it.
I have quizzed Cytanovic at length about what he believed when he attended the rally and how his views have changed (he has since apologised for his actions and worked with organisations countering hate to try to make amends). I have also spoken to counter-extremism and de-radicalisation experts who have worked alongside him over the past five years. I am confident that he is not a neo-Nazi or a white nationalist.
Cytanovic credits his transformation, not to the persistent campaign of hate he still confronts, but to a Muslim-American who, like Daryl Davis, talked to him and became a friend. Yet, it seems that precious few of those who profess to be “anti-hate” are willing to let go of their own hatred.
He has been unable to find a job outside factory work. When he does find work, he is routinely fired when his past is unearthed. No university will accept him for further study. Even efforts to volunteer at community or religious organisations are turned down. Institutions and groups are, understandably, reluctant to associate with him.
Meanwhile, as well as receiving death threats, he is still insulted on the street and bombarded with hate mail. When he tried to join the National Guard, media reports framed it as an attempt by the far-right to infiltrate the military. All of which leaves him in a catch-22 situation: “No one ever believes I have good intentions. I’m a Nazi until proven otherwise, but I can’t get the opportunity to prove I’m not.”
If racists refuse to see the targets of their hate as fully human, what does it say about those who proudly proclaim that ‘We Need to Stop Humanising Neo-Nazis’?
By eternally excluding him, society runs a risk. Feelings of alienation and isolation can help drive people to extreme groups, so marginalising anyone attempting to reject those groups is likely to eventually backfire. It could lead people to return to hate groups, and enable re-radicalisation […] Because if we deny people the chance to try being better, we risk perpetuating the cycle of extremism.
UnHerd
In the words of Daryl Davis, “When two enemies are talking, they’re not fighting.”